I Love Money. I Love Ohio. F**k LeBron.

Apparently, all the hype about where LeBron will play will fade into an anticlimactic declaration on ESPN in approximately 90 minutes.

Kelly Tripucka. Girl's name, no tattoos, great mustache. More man than LeBron.

The tragically and impossibly named Maverick Carter, LeBron’s main talent agent guy, claims that we need a press conference for this announcement, it’s gotten so big. Several 24-hour sports news outlets and the unstoppable onslaught of Internet commentators have filled this balloon with so much hot air that the only way to control the rubbery bubble upon deflation is to own the delivery of the message. All in all, probably the right call.

However, I can’t help but feel badly for my buddy Sean and all the other professional sports media types out there who have been forced to hang on every word, wink, and head-fake coming out of Chicago, New York, Cleveland, and Miami for the past several weeks. I staunchly believe that these ladies and gentleman of the press would much prefer to be writing about sports, about uncanny feats of athletic derring-do, about contests so close and breathtaking that countries and cities and communities are ignited into frenzied appreciation and awe.

Back in my day, it was easy to love sports, even the NBA. There were no tattoos, shorts were short (hence the name), and the players sold their soul for each and every advantage on the court. They played for the same team for a long time; if that team wasn’t good, the goal was to work together to make that team good. We had guys with mustaches, guys with high socks, guys with last names like Tripucka.

Now we have whiners. Divas. Straight-up selfish punks that will never win championships, no matter how much talent they pool together with the ample cash of a few select franchises.

My own basketball career ended when I chose to walk on to a Division 1 school rather than play at a smaller university. Ever since the day I learned I didn’t make that team, I’ve been planning how to aggressively but not maliciously encourage my firstborn son to accomplish my unattained dream of playing in the NBA.

Given what I’ve been forced to witness the past few weeks, I think I’d rather my kid dig ditches than associate with the egomaniacal pansies that constitute today’s professional ranks. At least I could sleep at night knowing that my child didn’t embarrass himself, his city, his state, his country, hell, the world, with his drama-queen antics and inflated sense of importance.

Or wait, is this all the media’s fault for jamming down our throats a situation that LeBron and Co. would prefer wasn’t so public?

What kills me about LeBron is that he chose to limit his own greatness, and shrink into the confines of comfort. As much as I despise Kobe Bryant, and it is pretty visceral, I begrudgingly admire his singular focus to be great and accept all the accountability that goes with it.
As a fan I am bummed because I’ve been robbed of great games. Watching Wade drag the Heat through the play-offs and go into I will not let us lose mode was great basketball. Think how great it would have been for the next 5 years to watch him and LeBron in the Conference Finals one upping each other. We’d be back to Bird/Magic. Sadly, it won’t happen. Kobe’s got a couple of years left on his legs, and while Durant looks like the promising star to rekindle casual fans, its too early to tell, and OKC is not really a great launching pad for the star of a league not focused on rodeo.
Ugh…now I am left with having to root for Kobe. F**k you indeed LeBron.